


The Last Dance

by Luthien



Series: Author's Favourites [2]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, M/M, Romance, men in tight breeches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-11
Updated: 2012-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-30 23:00:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/337135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthien/pseuds/Luthien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year after Waterloo, Captain James Hathaway, late of the 95th Rifles, leads a carefree bachelor's life in London. But all is not quite as it first appears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Dance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Damerel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damerel/gifts).



> Written for Day 2 of the Lewis Week of Love: Love in a Different Setting, on the lewis_challenge LJ community.
> 
> Regency AU, with apologies to Georgette Heyer.
> 
> Thanks to Damerel for a speedy beta. This story is also dedicated to Damerel, with thanks for a wonderful continuing conversation that's been going on for over a decade now. It started with men in tight breeches and always works its way back to that topic again eventually. ;-)

_London, 1816_

_  
_

It was a little after ten o'clock when James Hathaway presented himself in Berkeley Square on the night of the Mortmaignes' ball. Lady Mortmaigne greeted him with a smile, and Lord Mortmaigne with a hearty handshake and a "James, my boy. Good of you to come. It's been too long since we've seen you. I believe you've been back in London some little time now?"

James made the appropriate responses without really quite answering the marquess's question, and took the opportunity to move on quickly as the Mortmaignes turned to greet the next arrivals. Early as it was, the ballroom was already becoming crowded with the fashionable and the elegant, the gathering throng making up what seemed to James to be a goodly portion of the upper ten thousand. The several hundreds of candles in the great crystal chandelier suspended from the ceiling filled the room with glittering light. It was a warm spring night, and the room would likely grow hot and stifling long before the evening was out. James tugged surreptitiously at his neckcloth, careful not to disturb the painstakingly arranged folds of the Mathematical Tie, and wished himself otherwhere.

He glanced around the room, searching for any familiar face. It was years since he had attended a ball, or indeed any gathering larger than the most informal of rout parties, and almost all those present were unknown to him. The last ball at which he had been present had taken place here in this very ballroom for Lady Scarlett Mortmaigne's come-out. That had been almost eight years ago now, just before Lord Mortmaigne had bought James his pair of colours and he had been shipped off to join Lord Wellington's army in the Peninsula.

James spied an acquaintance from his regiment and was about to cross the room to present himself when a quiet laugh nearby heralded the arrival of Lady Scarlett herself.

"James, I thought that must be you," she exclaimed by way of greeting. "There are few gentlemen who can compare with you, in height at the least."

"Lady Scarlett," he said, making a slight but punctiliously correct bow.

"Oh, Scarlett, James, please. Such old friends as we are must surely be on first name terms."

"If you say so, Lady Scarlett," James replied.

Scarlett frowned on him severely, but her eyes twinkled. "I do say so, indeed," she said. "Surely you remember that that was always the rule when we were children together at Crevecoeur." She let a smile touch her lips.

James looked down into her lovely face. She looked older than he remembered her, and not happily so. When last James had seen her she had displayed all the youthful prettiness and demure raiment appropriate for a young lady of quality undertaking her first season. There was little enough of any of that to be seen in her now. Her perfectly coiffed hair, arranged in elaborate curls _A la Meduse_ , was still dark and her countenance striking, but there was a knowingness to her smile that had not been present the last time he had seen it. That smile reminded him uncomfortably of her father. He felt faintly shocked to behold her now, attired as she was in the opulent silks, satins and jewels of matronhood - or, rather, long-standing widowhood, he remembered belatedly. Her husband had died barely a year into their marriage, and she had not hastened to marry again. Tonight she wore a low-cut gown of spider-gauze over an under-dress of coquelicot satin, set off by a delicate diamond necklace clasped at her throat, fine diamond drops hanging from her ears and an intricately-designed diamond tiara in her hair. Red-striped slippers, long gloves and an ivory-brise fan completed the ensemble. The poppy red dress was a dashing choice, even for a lady of such consequence as the daughter of the Marquess of Mortmaigne. Wearing it, she would be the cynosure of every eye in the room. And, of course, such was her intention.

"I remember well. I remember you well, Scarlett," he said, letting the emphasis rest ever so slightly on the first syllable of her name. "I'd request the first dance, but I suspect you're already engaged."

"Of course," she agreed at once. "But I believe my hand remains unclaimed for the next."

"Well then, Scarlett, if you would do me the honour, if only for old times' sake." He sketched a bow without making any attempt to disguise the hint of mockery in it.

"For old times' sake," she said. "But first you must tell me what you have been doing all these months in London since you sold out of the 95th with never a word to any of us."

"How do you know that I've been in London?"

"You were not to be found at Crevecoeur in the summer or at Christmas, and no one else of my acquaintance mentioned having seen you save in town. Where else would you have been?"

"Where else indeed," James echoed. He thought back over all he'd experienced since that day - was it only a year ago? – that he'd been sent to the docks to meet an unprepossessing older man, a man who could not even lay claim to the rank of gentleman, from a ship recently arrived from Jamaica. World weary and war weary both, James had had no inkling then of the future about to unfold before him, adventures and… events that were as exhilarating and enlivening as they had been unlooked for. Beholding Scarlett now, clothed in both the finery and the effortless self-assurance that only those who moved in the first circles could ever hope to possess, he could think of no way to articulate even the least, most innocuous part of it.

At that moment, the orchestra struck up, and saved him.

Scarlett looked up at him coquettishly through long, too-thick lashes. "I must go, but I will hold you to your promise to stand up with me in the second dance," she said, and sailed off into the crowd without further ado.

Her progress across the room was easy to observe, a bright hothouse flower in a pale sea of the gowns of primrose, lilac, rose and white favoured by many of the other ladies present. Moments later, she took the floor on the arm of a gentleman that James did not know. The fellow was of average height with dark hair worn in a fashionable Brutus crop. However, his shirt points were no more than moderate, and he was dressed with propriety rather than the flamboyance of some of the gorgeously attired exquisites to be seen elsewhere in the room. James watched as the couples bowed to each other and the evening commenced in earnest. The ball opened with a country dance, the tune as old and familiar as the steps. The dancers moved gracefully and sedately around the room, meeting and parting in turn until at last the orchestra struck the final chords and the dancers stopped to bow once more before dispersing.

The second dance of the evening was a waltz. The waltz was no longer frowned upon by any but the highest sticklers, together with those overly zealous and ambitious Mamas of hopeful daughters who had not yet secured the all-important vouchers for Almack's, and yet it still retained about it a certain element of daring.

It did not take James long to find Scarlett. She was engaged in conversation with the same gentleman with whom James had seen her dancing. She introduced him as Mr Edward Fanning, her betrothed. James concealed his surprise by making the obligatory bow and, after informing Mr Fanning that he was pleased to make his acquaintance and congratulating him on his approaching nuptials, he led Scarlett onto the floor, took her right hand in a light clasp and encircled her waist with his other arm, and the dance began.

James had danced the waltz before, though not often. It was an odd sensation to twirl around the room with a lady held intimately in his arms, most particularly when that lady was Scarlett Mortmaigne. Touching her like this, touching her at all, seemed wrong somehow, and not just because he now knew her to be promised to another man.

"He doesn't like me dancing the waltz, you know," Scarlett commented as they danced close to where Mr Fanning sat, watching them from a sofa set against one wall.

"So, why dance the waltz?" James asked, keeping his face expressionless.

"Remember the rule?" she asked in return.

"Always," said James. They didn't speak again until they'd made another complete turn about the room.

"So, what _have_ you been doing all these months, if not in London?" Scarlett asked.

"I've been busy. I'm sorry, Lady Scarlett, but I cannot speak of it."

"Cannot, or will not?" She said the words playfully enough but he could hear the hard edge to her voice.

"Cannot," he said gently.

She glanced up to look at him properly then, a speculative gleam in her eye, but she said no more on the subject.

The tempo that the leader of the orchestra had chosen for the waltz was more than usually energetic, and James and Scarlett were both left a little breathless when at last the dance concluded. James left Scarlett fanning herself at the side of the dance floor and went to procure a glass of iced lemonade for her. Of Mr Fanning there was now no sign.

The butler, Buxton, found him at the refreshment table. "Captain Hathaway?" he enquired.

"No longer," Hathaway replied, turning around in surprise at being so addressed. "But I am James Hathaway."

"Yes, sir. The _person_ who delivered the message described you very accurately, if I may say so." The butler managed to convey with only a single inflection that he both disapproved of and was impressed by the messenger.

"A message?" James repeated, his eyebrows rising. Even though there was a veritable platoon of footmen in attendance for the ball, the butler surely had more important matters to deal with than seeking out a particular guest amidst the crowd in order to inform him of a message being left for him.

"If you would care to come with me, sir, I will ensure that the message is safely delivered."

James's eyebrows rose even higher. "How very mysterious," he said, though he had a suspicion of the identity of the messenger, if not the message itself. "I will be with you directly I have spoken with Lady Scarlett."

"Very good, sir," said the butler.

He found Scarlett just where he had left her, though now she was holding court in the midst of a circle of admiring gentlemen. Mr Fanning did not make up one of their number.

James delivered the promised glass of lemonade together with an apology. "I am afraid I must abandon you now. Your butler has brought me a message which I must attend to without delay."

"That is too bad of you, James. How am I to survive the evening without your gay chatter?" she demanded, arching her fine brow at him.

"I should not be gone long," he assured her, not rising to the bait, "but I do not think that you will lack for either company or conversation in any case," he added dryly with a glance at the surrounding company. And with that he made his bow and betook himself back to where the butler waited.

Buxton conducted him not to one of the saloons on the ground floor of the house, and neither to my lord's book-room nor to any room that could be considered an appropriate place in which a gentleman might conduct a conversation without any great danger of being disturbed. Instead, the butler led him past a number of just such rooms to a narrow staircase, and thence down into the bowels of the building to the servants' domain. The long corridor that led away from the stairs was almost as crowded as the ballroom, with liveried footmen hurrying to and fro. As they passed through the kitchen, the cook, sounding harried, shouted orders to his underlings in a strong French accent. And then at last the butler ushered James in to the main servants' hall.

"The messenger-" Buxton began.

"I know who he is," James replied, his eyes fixed on the quiet figure sitting near the end of the long table and looking steadily back at him.

"Indeed, sir," the butler said woodenly, his countenance betraying nothing, though no doubt he was deeply curious about both the messenger and the message.

"Thank you," James said politely but in obvious dismissal and made his way across the room to the table.

The butler nodded and took himself off.

The other man rose as James drew near. "Captain," he said by way of greeting.

"Lewis," James said in a low voice so that they would not be overhead. "What brings you here?"

"I've received some news that I thought you should hear about at once," Lewis replied in an equally low voice.

James glanced about, trying not to seem obvious in checking that none of the servants was nearby. "The Oxford matter?" he asked carefully.

"Just so," Lewis said. He paused, as though uncertain what to say next. He glanced about him, and then his attention returned to rest on James. He looked as out of place as James had felt upstairs in the ballroom. He was dressed in his customary suit of dark-hued broadcloth, the simple tie of his neckcloth speaking of propriety rather than artistry. His coat was full-skirted and his knee-breeches old-fashioned rather than fashionable, unlike the satin knee-breeches that were de rigueur for the gentlemen attending the ball, while the gaiters Lewis wore below over his square-toed shoes were less fashionable still. However, there his resemblance to a country parson ended. There was a steel to Lewis's gaze and a quiet but firm self-possession in his manner that reminded James of the soldier that he knew Lewis once had been. He was not a young man, though somehow he had seemed older to James when first they had met than he did now. His exact age, like his calling, was difficult for the casual observer to pinpoint, but he could pass for a middle-aged, middlingly successful tradesman in a pinch. His brown hair was brushed back in a style harking back to the last century and, though worn clipped quite short at the back, this only served to add to the overall impression of a man of moderate means and no pretensions to fashion whatsoever.

"Is anything the matter?" James asked, when Lewis still did not say anything.

Lewis swallowed slightly. "Nothing, Captain. You are looking very fine tonight, is all."

James glanced down at his get-up in surprise. He was attired very correctly in full evening dress: a waistcoat of watered silk, white rather than one of the pastel colours that he generally favoured, together with black satin knee-breeches and striped silk stockings, and a long, tight-fitted swallow-tailed coat. "I suppose I have rarely had occasion to dress so formally in the time we have known one another, but I assure you that I am not half so finely turned out as some of the Pinks of the Ton upstairs."

"That's as may be," said Lewis. He did not elaborate, but he directed a speaking look at James.

It was James's turn to swallow. "Shall I find us somewhere where we may speak privately?" he asked quickly. "The servants' hall is not the place I would have chosen to conduct any sort of conversation."

Lewis laughed briefly. "That butler wasn't any too pleased for me to cross the threshold at all. 'This is a nobleman's establishment,' he told me, 'and not a place for the likes of you to be seen.'"

"But you did gain entry, I perceive."

"Only because I showed him me papers. I don't like to flash them about, but there was no help for it. As soon as he saw who I was, he was clever enough to know that denying me entry would only cause to rain trouble down upon his head, but once he let me in he was determined I wasn't to be seen above stairs. I told him that I didn't need to be seen, but only to talk with you, and cautioned him that he wasn't to bandy about who I was."

"And so he came to fetch me himself," James said, nodding.

"As you say," said Lewis in his usual concise way. His was not a London accent, the remaining slight burr betraying his origins far in the north, even after many years with the army in the Peninsula and elsewhere, and then later here in the south. His speaking voice was a trifle rough, but his conversation was devoid of the thieves' cant that typically peppered his colleagues' speech. All in all, Lewis was not at all the typical Bow Street Runner, James thought for perhaps the hundredth time, and silently thanked the Almighty, once again, for Robert Lewis's being exactly who and what he was.

At that point, James made a decision. "Wait here," he told Lewis. "It shouldn't take above a few minutes to make my apologies to my hosts, and then we can be on our way."

A look of relief passed over Lewis's face. "I didn't like to ask, not wishing to put you in an awkward spot, but if you're sure…?"

"Entirely sure. I won't be long," James said again, and turned to make his way back up to the main floor of the house. It took him slightly longer than he expected to make his escape. First there was the matter of negotiating his way up the stairs. He almost collided with a footman coming down the stairs carrying a tray piled high with empty glasses. The man let out a blistering reprimand, expostulating him for a fool until he moved the tray to one side and saw that James was not one of the servants. His stammering apology served only to increase James's fervent wish to escape Mortmaigne House as soon as humanly possible.

Once James reached the ballroom, he encountered a second difficulty: despite her very eye-catching gown, Scarlett was nowhere to be seen. He scanned the room carefully twice more to be completely sure that he had not somehow overlooked her presence, but each time the result was the same. James did not have the leisure to seek her out elsewhere in the house; their promised conversation would have to wait for another occasion. Instead of searching further, he made his way to his hostess's side to offer his apologies and to beg her forgiveness. This also took rather longer than he had hoped, since the lady in question seemed determined to prolong the conversation for as long as possible. James suspected that he was being punished for being so rude as to leave barely a handful of dances into the evening, but at last he was able to make his bow and he returned with all haste to the servant's hall, stopping on the way only to retrieve his cloak and hat.

When James entered the room, Lewis was seated at the table once again, an impatient look on his face, but his eyes widened when he saw James, and he rose from the table at once. James wondered at the look, but since his appearance had changed little from when Lewis had seen him last save for the addition of the cloak, with its cherry red silk lining peeping out here and there, and the black chapeau bras tucked under his arm, he was at a loss to determine the cause of Lewis's wide-eyed expression.

"Shall we go?" James asked, looking around for the door to the street.

"I thought you'd never ask," Lewis muttered, leading the way.

They were met at the door by Buxton. There was a pained expression on the butler's face. The man was clearly torn between horror at the thought of any guest of his master's departing through the servants' entrance and his absolute determination that Lewis should leave the building through that door and no other. James took a step towards the door and for an instant Buxton looked as though he might actually protest, but then he firmed his jaw and flung open the door with quite as much ceremony as he would have employed when opening the front door for his lordship himself.

James and Lewis strolled out into the night without a backward glance. It took only a moment to mount the steps up to the street, and then they were out on the Square. It was a clear night, and the moon was high in the sky, its thin light all but obscured by the warm glow provided by the new gas street lights.

James wasted no time in flagging down a hackney and instructing the jarvey to convey them to his lodgings in Ryder Street. As soon as the doors were safely shut behind them, James turned to Lewis and asked, "So tell me, am I right in guessing that our quarry Pittaway has surfaced and is once again terrorising the dons of Oxford?"

"Yes and no," said Lewis. He stroked his chin and frowned, as if as little pleased with that answer as James himself. "Pittaway has surfaced again, in a manner of speaking. He was found lying dead in the street at the back of the Blue Boar last evening."

"Then that is an end to it," James said.

"Yes and no," Lewis said again. "What I mean to say is: Pittaway's out of the way now, which is all to the good, but who killed him?"

"His demise was not the result of a drunken altercation, then? I assumed, when you mentioned the Blue Boar…"

"No, it wasn't a brawl turned accidentally fatal. His throat was cut from ear to ear," Lewis said without relish. "Someone wanted him dead."

"So then the question becomes: who," James said. "There are certainly all too many inhabitants of Oxford with good reason to wish the man dead. But actually carrying out cold-blooded murder? Or perhaps paying someone to do the deed?"

"That's the question indeed," Lewis agreed, and lapsed into silence.

James produced his elegant gold filigree snuff-box from his coat pocket, opened it with a practised flick of his thumbnail, and took a pinch of snuff. He did not bother to offer the snuff-box to Lewis; Lewis had made his opinion of snuff-taking very clear early on in their acquaintance. He leaned back against the squabs and considered the matter of motive in the death of the late unlamented Jacob Pittaway as the coach bowled along the London streets.

It was not long before the hack drew up outside James's lodgings in Ryder Street. He and Lewis alighted from the coach, James paid off the driver and they made their way up the steps to the front door of Number 8. Attwood, the proprietor of the establishment, opened the front door to them and wished them a good evening as they made their way the rest of the short distance to James's set of rooms.

Once they were settled in the parlour, James offered Lewis a glass of Madeira.

"You already know the answer to that one, lad," Lewis said.

"Well, I can't not offer you some refreshment, and you know very well that I don't keep a supply of ale to hand," James protested.

"I don't need any refreshment," Lewis said quietly.

James suddenly did not know where to look. His eyes lighting on the bell pull, he summoned his valet and dismissed him for the night.

Lewis did not comment once the man had left the room again, but James could feel his eyes on him. He cleared his throat. "So, what are we going to do about the murder of Pittaway?" he asked, pouring a glass of Madeira for himself and replacing the decanter on its tray.

"Well we can't do much from here," Lewis said.

"Agreed. The answer, whatever it may be, lies in Oxford," James said as he seated himself in the wing-backed chair opposite Lewis. He took a sip of Madeira and finally looked Lewis in the eye again.

"Yes," Lewis said, but he sounded less than enthused even while he matched James look for look.

"What?" James asked. "You are not reluctant to return to the scene of the crime, surely?"

"No, of course it's not that."

"So, what?"

"Well," Lewis began, and paused, his cheeks going slightly pink.

And then James knew. The corners of his mouth curled up in the slightest of smiles. "It's the horses, isn't it? You don't want to ride all the way to Oxford on horseback."

"The dratted animals never obey me," Lewis complained.

"There's really nothing much to it. All you need is a light touch and a steady hand."

"Not all of us are cut out for a cavalry regiment."

"I wasn't in a cavalry regiment," James pointed out.

"You know what I mean."

James didn't, but for once he refrained from arguing the point. He took another sip of Madeira.

"Perhaps it would be best if you rode up to Oxford by yourself. I can follow you on the stage," Lewis suggested.

"There's no need for that. We can travel up together," James said.

"I don't think you'd enjoy travelling by stagecoach," Lewis said with a small smile of his own.

"Who said anything about travelling by the public stage? I'll hire a post-chaise and four in the morning, and we'll make the journey in comfort."

Lewis looked at him as though he was overlooking a blindingly obvious detail. "I can't," he said.

"Of course you can," said James.

"Who ever heard of a Bow Street Runner travelling by post-chaise?"

"Who ever heard of a Cambridge-educated captain in the 95th Rifles solving murders with a Northumbrian Bow Street Runner in Oxford?" James countered.

"True," Lewis admitted. "But still, I cannot-"

"Please, let me," James said quietly.

Lewis leaned forward in his chair and regarded him silently for a moment. "All right," he said at last, "but you know I can never repay you."

"No, it is I who can never repay you," James said. He could feel the heightened colour in his cheeks, but he didn't look away this time.

Neither did Lewis.

After another long moment, James continued, "But if you'd care to assist me out of this coat, which is by far too close-fitting for me to manage to remove unaided, I would count it a favour."

Lewis again said nothing in reply to this, but this time he rose to his feet and came over to James's chair. "You'll need to stand up," he said, his voice sounding rougher than usual.

James dutifully got to his feet. He unknotted his cravat, and cast it unheeded to the floor. Then he unbuttoned his coat and waited. A bare instant later he felt Lewis's hands on his shoulders. James tensed, waiting for Lewis's next move. He felt warm breath against his nape an instant before Lewis planted a kiss there. James couldn't quite suppress a shudder.

"You'll need to move your arms," Lewis said against his ear.

James felt helpless to do anything but comply.

It required a certain degree of manoeuvring, but before too many more moments had passed the deed was done and James found himself standing in the middle of the room in his shirt sleeves feeling suddenly exposed.

"Now don't look like that, lad. There's no call for it," Lewis admonished, looking up from laying the coat carefully over the arm of the chair. He held out his arms in silent invitation, and James went to him willingly. He let out at long breath as his arms came around Lewis's back in turn. He bent his head, resting his cheek on Lewis's shoulder, and leaned into the embrace. Despite the unnatural nature - surely a contradiction in terms - of this form of love, standing here with Lewis warm and solid and achingly familiar against him felt, well, natural in a way that had been entirely missing when he had waltzed around the ballroom with Scarlett Mortmaigne in his arms less than an hour ago.

He lifted his head and found Lewis's mouth with his own, and then there was no more talking. They stood there a long time, the kiss saying everything that needed to be said. He felt Lewis's hand slip between them, felt his fingers stroking James's cock through the tight, restricting satin of his breeches. He was hard already, but how could he not be? James pressed closer, rocking his hips hard against Lewis's breeches and not quite succeeding in remaining silent when he felt Lewis's own hardness pressing back against him, and through it all the kiss continued.

A sound of protest left James when at last Lewis drew away, but a second later he was fumbling at the buttons at the fall of James's breeches and then his hand was back, but this time warm against James's cock, slipping back and forth along the length of him, coaxing and teasing, and leading James in exactly the direction that he was longing to go. It didn't take long.

"I love the way you look, like this," Lewis's said against his ear, breaking the silence. He'd never done that before, never said anything, not from beginning to end at any other time they'd done this, or anything like it. His voice sounded hoarse as he added, "Beautiful, you are. Perfect. And only mine to see. Just mine." Shaking, Lewis pressed a kiss against James's jaw and buried his face in the hollow between neck and shoulder.

Groaning and shuddering James spent himself in Lewis's hand. It was over almost as soon as it began, and yet it felt as though he'd been waiting on the edge for fully half of eternity and now he had fallen. Beyond redemption. Was this what it felt like to be numbered amongst the Fallen? He couldn't remember anything remotely like this strange, ungovernable physical joy being mentioned in his theology lectures at Cambridge. It was worth it, he thought. It was worth any price to be able to feel truly alive like this.

Lewis removed his hand from James's breeches. "You'll need to clean yourself up," he observed. "We both will."

Somehow, the prosaic observation only made James love Lewis more. He pulled Lewis close, unmindful of practical considerations, at least for the moment.

"I know this will send us straight to hell, but for myself I don't care," James whispered fiercely.

Lewis drew back, taking James by the shoulders so he could look him in the eyes. "This won't send us to hell," Lewis said, with a certainty that James envied. "After all you've seen on the battlefield, after your parents' fate, and what happened to my wife one day just walking down the street, can you really believe that there's a God who cares either way? I don't believe there's a vengeful God in the heavens, any more than I believe in a merciful God. There's no omnipotent being sitting in judgement on us. Life is what it is, and so is love, and there's precious little time allotted to us on this earth for either."

It was the longest speech James had ever heard from Lewis on any subject. Lewis's blue eyes regarded James seriously, waiting for James's response. His careworn face was not young and maybe it had never been beautiful, certainly not beautiful in that artful way that the ladies and gentlemen of _ton_ spent so much of their time striving to achieve. But he was… he was Lewis, and there was no one else like him. James could no more give him up than he could give up breathing.

"I need you," James said. "I don't know what to do," he added, because both statements were all too true.

"Do? Why that part's easy, lad. We go to Oxford and hunt for a killer, that's what we do. It's what we do best." Lewis released James's shoulders but he didn't move away.

James couldn't help but laugh at that. "Not quite best," he said lightly, though he meant every word. "But first, we must seek our bed. I fear there is a debt still owing to you. Well, one of the many," he amended. "But this at least is one I can repay." His hand slipped down between them against the fall of Lewis's breeches to emphasise this point.

Lewis trembled against him and James smiled. He would live his life and love his love and think no further than tomorrow until he had no choice. Once, such an outlook might have horrified him, but now James found he could do nothing but smile at the prospect.

The future stretched out ahead of them, one day at a time.


End file.
